


Sticks and Stones

by smalllemonade



Category: Original Work
Genre: "To this Day", Bullying, F/F, Gen, Homophobia, Sorry Not Sorry, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1374670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smalllemonade/pseuds/smalllemonade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off of a spoken word poem called "To this Day" by Shane Koyczan. </p>
<p>"I honestly didn’t realize my family was different from the others, the ones with a mother and a father rather than two mothers. I didn’t find it strange, but… I guess I was the only one."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sticks and Stones

**Author's Note:**

> So, apparently my sleep-deprived brain decided that posting this was a good idea, and this happened. It's something I wrote for my Contemporary Literature class. I wasn't sure whether I should try to salvage it and hopefully get something at least somewhat decent, or just burn it. But I can't decide, so now I'm tossing it into the world to see what you guys think. If you have any suggestions on where to start cleaning this mess up, please leave a comment. Same if you think it should be burnt, as long as you don't sugar-coat it. 
> 
> Anyways... here it is.

Sticks and Stones

            I wasn’t the only kid who grew up this way. I honestly didn’t realize my family was different from the others, the ones with a mother and a father rather than two mothers. I didn’t find it strange, but… I guess I was the only one.

            It started in first grade, when my teacher told the class to draw a family portrait. Like the good little girl I was, I focused solely on that picture, pouring all of my artistic ability into it (well, as much artistic ability as a first grader could possess), so I wasn’t paying attention to what the other kids were drawing.

            I only wish they had been so kind.

            The boy to my left asked loudly why I drew two mommies and no daddy, so I told him that I don’t have a daddy, I have two mommies who adopted me. Of course, not knowing any better, he claimed I was a liar and called the teacher over. I explained to her that no, I wasn’t lying and yes, I do have two mommies. I still remember the look of disgust on her face, the one that had confused me so much in the beginning, until I realized that apparently, having two mommies was wrong. The other kids teased me and avoided me like I was a plague, afraid they would catch my ‘gayness’. The teacher did nothing to stop it, even going so far as to encourage it from time to time.

            I guess she didn’t like the fact that I had two mommies.

            I hated first grade with a passion. I came home every day crying, and my mothers would tell me that saying, about how sticks and stones could break my bones, but words would never hurt me. When I repeated it to my bullies, they just added sticks and stones to their abuse, and I realized my mothers lied to me. Every time I was sent to the nurse’s office with bruises and tears, the lady there would tell me to go away.

            I guess she didn’t like the fact that I had two mommies, either.

            It got so bad that we were forced to move to another city and another school. This time, we were smart. I was told to tell no one that I had two mommies, never speak of my family to anyone, ever. If someone asked about my daddy, I was supposed to tell them that I’ve never met him. This was fine with me—I learned my lesson from first grade. However, I soon realized that this meant I couldn’t take any of my friends home, which caused a bit of suspicion. They told their parents, who (probably suspecting a _less than loving_ parent) decided to take it upon themselves to investigate. They showed up at my house, and imagine their surprise when two women answered the door. First grade repeated itself all over again.

            This happened again and again, every year, every new school. My parents wanted to homeschool me, but they were never given permission. I guess the court didn’t like the fact that I had two mommies, either. All they could do was watch as every year the abuse grew harsher and harsher, and every day I would return home with bruises and a broken soul. This continued until high school, where one day they took it too far. On that day, I was late coming home. My parents searched the school, only to find me covered in blood and propped against the dumpster in the back parking lot. The policemen collected evidence in little bags and told my mothers that they would take it back to the station and find out who was responsible for this. A few minutes later, when the officer casually tossed the evidence into the dumpster at the crime scene, nobody mentioned it.

            The people who organized my funeral were okay with the fact that I had two mothers. I just wish they weren’t the only ones.


End file.
